Crossed Over
by athenagaladriel
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after his two-year stint from being dead. John is furious and stubbornly unforgiving. Things take a deadly turn when John starts behaving completely out of character. Sherlock is left distraught as he begins to suspect that his former partner in crime (solving) could be a criminal mastermind.
1. Prologue

The plaintive, slightly eerie sound of the violin startled Mrs. Hudson from her dreamless slumber. Opening her right eye just a crack, she focussed her gaze on the window. The inky darkness of a cold autumn night stared back at her. Yawning hugely, she checked her bedside clock for the time. The digital display read 3.06.

Her heart hammered as she crept up the steps, trying to be as quiet as possible. The frying pan she held in her hand trembled as fear gripped her mind. It can't be. It couldn't be. Her brain shied away from the possibility with determined stubbornness. Lost in her musings, she completely forgot about being stealthy and trod on the creaky step.

The playing stopped immediately. She stood frozen in her spot, holding her breath without meaning to. A silhouette appeared on the frost glass pane on the door. There was a definitive hint of curly hair. The door knob turned. Her heart leaped into her mouth as her worst fears came true. Screaming, she fled as fast as her old legs could carry her. She had seen a ghost.


	2. Part 1

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I'm busy now. I will come by after work, I promise. Please calm down!"  
John was starting to worry for Mrs. Hudson's sanity. True, the incident two years ago had left them all shaken, but he had always pictured his old landlady to be extremely strong and resilient.  
"Of course. Have a good day, Doctor!" came the clipped reply. She had hung up before he had a chance to wish her back.  
He buried his face in his hands. Going back to his previous apartment would bring up old memories he had tried not to dwell on for the last couple of years. Flashes of the past came to his mind unbidden. A tall figure with dark curly hair, black trench coat and deep blue scarf tied loosely around his neck, standing atop the hospital roof. Spreading his hands as if he were unfurling wings and letting himself fall almost gracefully to the ground. The river of blood, the absence of a pulse and those intelligent blue eyes snapped shut forever. The black headstone with his name carved in bold letters onto it. Sherlock Holmes.  
"Dr. Watson." His assistant's slightly impatient tone brought him out of his reverie. He had quite a busy day. It was that time of the year when almost everyone had the flu. When he was finally free, he squared his shoulders and took a cab to Baker Street, more out of concern for the only motherly figure in his life than curiosity about the ghost or about the condition of his former flat.  
The doorbell of #221 was answered by a white-faced Mrs. Hudson, who clearly showed all symptoms of a person afflicted with mental trauma. Once inside, she offered him some tea as she slapped a plate of biscuits on the table. Her hands shook, which John knew was not a sign of old age.  
"Yes, please," he replied, keeping his tone even.  
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" she asked as she handed him his steaming cup of freshly brewed tea.  
John stammered his dissent, but she just shook her head. In a sombre voice, but with a sudden flourish, she declared, "I want you to meet someone."

A few minutes later, John stood in his old dusty flat, staring thunderstruck at the man now seated with steepled fingers in the familiar armchair.  
"Hello, John," came the deep, well-known voice of his partner, the smartest man he had ever known.  
"I'm sorry, sir, but do I know you?" he asked coldly in response.  
"Oh don't be silly!" A mischievous smile played on Sherlock's face.  
He was so outraged he couldn't articulate his emotions. He felt profoundly relived, yet all his face showed was his anger at being betrayed, being fooled and kept in the dark for two whole years. He did not blame the poor Mrs. Hudson for her almost nervous breakdown. He was on the verge of one himself.  
"Why did you come back?" he finally managed, barely keeping the venom out of his voice.  
"I was needed back in London," Sherlock replied in a matter-of-fact way, which was his usual tone.  
"Oh, I see. You are needed here now. For two years you left us thinking you were dead! Now you suddenly pop up here and expect everything to be back to the way it was?"  
He considered it for a moment. "Yes, something like that, if not exactly. I guess I owe you both an apology, though."  
"Go on," John prompted. Mrs. Hudson left the room, unable to contain herself, whipping out her handkerchief in a swift motion and burying her face in it.  
Sherlock cocked his eyebrow at her dramatic exit and then looked straight into John's eyes.  
"I am truly very sorry." He sounded utterly sincere. John grudgingly gave him some credit for that.  
"Oh, shut up!" he snapped, annoyed with himself as he couldn't stay mad at Sherlock forever when he so badly wanted to. He wanted to yell at him and storm out, insisting that he never interfere in his life again. Two things held him back - his curiosity and his loyalty as a friend.  
"So when am I meeting this special woman of yours? I hope you told our dear landlady. She'd be thrilled to know you're not gay, although I'm not inclined to think that she'll believe it entirely till you marry this girl." Sherlock interrupted his train of thought.  
"How did you..?" He would never stop being amazed by his prowess in the art of deduction. "You don't get to meet her till you're forgiven. I haven't told Mrs. Hudson, although I plan to once I propose to her and she accepts. Hopefully," he added as an afterthought.  
"Will you be wearing that ridiculous moustache when you propose? I would definitely say no, if I were her," he chuckled.  
"I did not remember asking for your opinion," retorted John, clearly affronted.  
His smile grew into a hearty laugh as he remarked, "I have missed you, John. It feels good to be back!"  
"Wait, wait! Just a moment. I want to know how you survived, Sherlock. I was there when you fell. I felt your pulse. I saw the blood. So tell me, how did you do it?"  
"All in good time." He gave him his characteristic wink once again.  
John couldn't help feeling exasperated, intrigued and ridiculously happy at the same time. His face must have reflected his dilemma as Sherlock laughed again at his expense.


	3. Part 2

"Where are we going?" Mary asked, curiosity evident on her face. 


End file.
